


and She keeps calling me back again

by savon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Times but it's actually 3+0 times, Actually Betaed For Once, Aziraphale Doesn't Get To Hear Pale Blue Eyes, Criticism Of Central European Cuisine, Crowley Has Some Problems, Established Relationship, F/M, God works in mysterious ways, Half A Beatles Song, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), but he gets to read the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. good for him, gratuitous listening to the Velvet Underground, one mention of david bowie (on behalf of douglas adams)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savon/pseuds/savon
Summary: "Crowley," said God, "how do you feel about Rising?"or,After the apocalypse that could have been, Crowley is posed a question, multiple times.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	and She keeps calling me back again

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [Ezzie, ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsInMyDamnEyes/pseuds/StarsInMyDamnEyes) for looking this through!

"Crowley," said God, "how do you feel about Rising?"

Crowley, who until four seconds ago was fast asleep, in bed, accompanied by a plush snake named Backpack from a Swedish warehouse, didn't immediately catch on. He just stopped the Earth's absolute destruction mere days ago, and, considering everything, was a bit knackered.  
  


"What the fuck," said he, since it was easier than deciding whether saying Hell or Heaven was the appropriate way of cursing for him. Fuck was consistent.

"Rising, Crowley," God patronised. "You know, from being a demon. You could be an angel again. I could make you human, but then you'd die. I could make you a regular snake, but you would die in that case, too. What say you?"

"Wh-," Crowley's voice had gone all breathy and squeaky as he backed up into the headboard. "What are you doing here? Why now?"

"I'm everywhere, Crowley. And I feel like you deserved it."

"You also felt like I deserved to Fall. Make your mind up."  
  


Crowley attempted to burrow back into his earlier sleeping position in the most devil-may-care way he could, but with his hands shaking all over, it was kind of a scrambling mess instead.  
  


God sighed.

"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. It's ineffable."

"I think it's perfectly effable that I bloody well didn't! You could've just answered, you have no problem doing it now!" Crowley sat up again, the shaking previously only present in his limbs was coursing through his whole body, waiting to jump at the next thing God would say. Maybe it was disdain, maybe it was for the sake of being contrary, maybe it was because She had been silent for millennia and now She was speaking to him, him, him alone–

She didn't say anything.

"Hello?!" Crowley was halfway out of bed now. "Hello??"

Silence.

"Grargh!"  
  


Standing in the middle of his bedroom, trembling from head to toe, observing the ceiling (oh, look, a crack, maybe he should do something about that), Crowley felt like he could tear his hair out if he hadn't just grown it.

Her and Her bloody sensitivity!

  
"Well, I'm So Sorry if I offended you!" he threw his arms up and laid back into the bed, still vibrating. He was only slightly sorry. Maybe one part sorry, one part confused, one part hopeful, and seven parts not sorry at all.

He pulled his blankets up until he was an amorphous lump on the bed, winding Backpack over his arms, and then just lay there. It occurred to him that he didn't even give an answer.

* * *

The next time it happened, kind of, Aziraphale and him were in the Bentley, Crowley avidly shooting down Aziraphale's point about using That Much Paprika being absolutely warranted when your country, in fact, is mostly known for using That Much Paprika.

"It's overpowering," said Crowley, and switched on the CD player that he had in the year 2021 AD, Lou Reed immediately letting him know what Candy says. (How did he cram an LP in there?) Aziraphale looked slightly disturbed.  
  


The conversation went on.  
  


"Everything tastes the same! It's paprika, maybe spicy if you're lucky, then it's grease, then you can't even think because it sits on your stomach. It's just entirely too much." Crowley was saying as Sterling Morrison (absolutely perfect name for a guitarist in a band called Velvet Underground) was, in Aziraphale's opinion, tearing his guitar apart.

"It's traditional. It's what they're known for," the angel said, clasping his hands together like the bowl of dödölle he'd consumed wasn't sitting on his stomach, and maybe kicking it down two flights of stairs, for good measure.  
  


"Too bad. How was the dessert?" Crowley asked to give Aziraphale the chance to redeem Hungary's reputation as best as he could, and as he went into the details of the genius of boiling cottage cheese dumplings, Crowley was on the lookout for the end of the slightly bluegrassy number currently playing, to stop it from transitioning into Pale Blue Eyes, because although they were very much in love, he couldn't bear to let Aziraphale know what he'd languished to since 1969.

But he didn't have to worry. Or rather, he had to worry quite a lot, but not about Aziraphale hearing Pale Blue Eyes and also about Aziraphale not hearing Pale Blue Eyes, because instead of Pale Blue Eyes, Lou Reed's pointless noises were cut into by–  
  


" _FALLIN', YES, I AM FALLIN', AND SHE KEEPS CALLIN' ME BACK AGAIN!!_ " and Crowley almost swerved into a lamppost.

"That was abrupt," said Aziraphale conversationally, while Crowley tried to get his breathing back to a level that was considered normal.  
He didn't need to breathe, but he liked to, which meant he experienced all the ups and downs of it.

He was nodding. The song that had absolutely no business on this album, especially not starting directly from the chorus, rang out. Plaintive twanginess took its place. Crowley shut down the CD player.

"Well," he said blankly after another minute of trying to compose himself, "yes. That was abrupt. Well observed. And doN'T DO THAT!" he shouted skywards, "I COULD'VE HIT SOMEONE!"

Naturally, nothing else came from above.

* * *

Aziraphale was reading, Crowley wrapped around one of his fingers. Ever since she'd discovered that instead of a gigantic snake, she could be a tiny snake, too, she found that pretending to be jewellery was one of the most convenient ways to sleep, because of

1\. the closeness to Aziraphale  
2\. the body heat  
3\. Aziraphale looked just that much more peculiar because of it.  
  


All was well. Aziraphale was immersed in a book which mayhaps could promise to be useful, should he decide to travel around the galaxy, and was also making him softly chortle more often than not, and Crowley was, well, wrapped around his finger, sleeping.

There was another song Crowley always skipped when in the Bentley, and Aziraphale knew it had to do something about being wrapped around fingers, because Crowley didn't much like it when the angel used the expression. She preferred 'playing jewellery', which was, in Aziraphale's opinion, unnecessarily metaphorical. He lingered on that for a bit, then returned to his book.  
  


Unexpectedly, Crowley uncoiled and almost fell to the floor, had Aziraphale not caught her, her jaws opening in a silent hiss. She wriggled around a bit, and a moment later, she was in her very frazzled-looking human corporation, splayed out on the floor.  
  


"Geez louissse," she said, for the first and probably last time in her existence, "She didn't even bother to wake me up thiss time."

"What, Her?" Aziraphale crouched next to her, "and what do you mean by this time?"

"I mean," she sat up, pressing the neck of her hand to her temple, "I mean that She keepss asssking me if I want to Rise, and I keep telling Her to pisss off, and She doesn't, and I don't even know why She's sso inssissstent."

"Ah." Aziraphale didn't immediately know how to deal with that. God was, apparently, talking to Crowley. When God hasn't talked to anyone in a good long time. God wanted Crowley, an angel Fallen for not the soundest of reasons, to Rise back up again, and Crowley, the angel Fallen for not the soundest of reasons was telling God to piss off. "Maybe it's ineffable," he concluded.  
  


Crowley opened her mouth to protest, but Aziraphale shushed her.

"Now, have you considered giving Her an Actual, Definite Answer? Such as yes or no?"

"Of course I've considered it! In fact, I am still considering it! I have a list of questions I want to ask Her before giving Her an Actual, Definite Answer, but I can never get to them before She shuts off again," she sighed, the hiss having gone from her throat.

The questions were:

  
– Would she lose her memory of being a demon? It happened when Falling, would it happen when Rising? Would she lose all that she became?  
  
Or!  
  
– Would she be Crawly the angel, in the eyes of the other angels?  
  
And!  
  
– Why does She even want her to Rise?  
  


And as she thought about actually asking these questions, more questions came about, such as  
  
– Why would it be better if she was an angel instead of a demon?  
  
Followed by  
  
– Why hasn't she told Her no, outright, the first time she asked?

She was willing to make her Rise again, but not to, never to answer her questions.  
  


So she opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

"No," she said to Her, "I'm quite content as I am." No thanks to you, she didn't say, as Aziraphale and her had to come up with an elaborate warding system against both Heaven and Hell a few years after their trials. "Thanks, though," she added as an afterthought bitterly, and really, really hoped She was still listening.  
  


Aziraphale beamed at her, and, taking her hand, pulled her into a sitting position.

"Come on," he sat back in his chair, opened his book, and let Crowley twine around his hand again, "let me tell you about someone who looked like a bunch of David Bowies stacked on top of eachother."

**Author's Note:**

> i should make it clear that i Am actually hungarian, therefore allowed to criticize our cuisine. so are you, tbh, wherever you're from. it sucks.


End file.
